


these words were the wars

by wolfchester



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, and bellamy isn't too bad either, first time writing for this show woohoooo, i just love clarke griffin so much, pretty cute even though there's a dead body, set after bellamy kills dax in 'day trip'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 11:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2620031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first kiss was not shared under normal circumstances. </p><p>(But then, Clarke guesses, nothing is really ‘normal’ anymore.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	these words were the wars

Clarke shuffles over so she’s propped up against the tree, trying to catch her breath. She looks over at Bellamy, who’s trying to do the same as her.

“You’re okay,” she breathes, directing the statement half to herself and half to him. There’s a soft relief in her voice that surprises her.

Bellamy’s eyes are wide, glassed over, as he stares at the dead body in front of him. _You killed him, Bellamy. This is on you. Everything bad that has happened here is because of you._ “No. I’m not. My mother- if she knew what I’ve done, who I am…” he shakes his head, tried to get his breathing stable. “She raised me to be better. To be good.”

Clarke eyebrows furrow and she reaches out a hand to rest on his leg, gently squeezing. It’s meant to be a symbol of comfort, but Bellamy just shrugs it off, recognising it as pity. “Bellamy-”

“Now all I do is hurt people. I’m a monster.” The revelation leaves a hollowness to his voice, to his heart.

Clarke’s almost _angry_ at his insistence to believing he is the villain. Can’t he see that although he has done wrong, he has certainly also done right? She leans in closer, turning her body and crouching in front of him so that they are face-on.

“Hey,” she starts, looking him right in his sad, sad eyes. “You saved my _life_ today. And you may be a total ass half the time, but-” Clarke offers a hint of a smile at that, and Bellamy chuckles because it’s true.

Clarke ducks her head, takes a deep breath, then looks again at the broken boy in front of her. “I need you,” she says. Her heartbeat quickens when she sees Bellamy’s eyes light up, just a little bit. It’s true. She needs him. She needs him to help her lead the group, to help them survive. But part of her thinks that maybe she needs him in other ways, too. And, frankly, that scares her. So that’s why she follows up the original statement with a more general: “We all need you.”

Bellamy’s lips turn into a sad sort of smile and his eyes look down. She sighs and extend a hand to tilt his chin upwards, facing her again.

“None of us would have survived this place if it wasn’t for you. You want forgiveness? Fine, I’ll give it to you. You’re forgiven, okay?” She pauses, her grey eyes searching Bellamy’s brown ones, trying to wordlessly transfer a sort of love onto him, a sort of knowing that he is okay, and he’s going to be okay, and they all have to do things they don’t want to do here, that it’s not just him. “But you can’t run, Bellamy. You have to come back with me. You have to face it.”

“Like how you faced your mom?” It’s an attempt at cruel humour, and at the most he expects the girl to roll her eyes at him, tell him: _That’s different_. But all she does is nod, eyes watering.

“You’re right.” She cups his face in her hands, brushes the pads of her thumb against his dirty and blood-stained cheeks. She can feel his soft breath against the inside of her wrists and _god help her_ if it doesn’t feel good. “I don’t want to face my mom. I don’t want to face _any_ of it. All I think about everyday is how we’re going to keep everyone alive. But we don’t have a choice.” Her voice quivers and Bellamy frowns. He’s not used to seeing his Princess like this. She’s supposed to be brave and strong and bossy, not on the verge of tears. Not crushing under the weight of the responsibility of caring for 100 ( _not 100 anymore_ , he thinks bitterly) delinquent kids who need someone who’s a mother, and a healer, and a leader, and a friend, and- and she can’t be 50 different things for these kids. _She’s just a kid herself._

“Jaha will kill me when he comes down.”

“We’ll figure something out.” Their faces are close now. Too close. And it wasn’t supposed to happen like this, with a dead body in front of them and the stench of death all around. It wasn’t supposed to happen at _all_. But Clarke figures it’s okay. Figures _hey, we could die tomorrow, right?_ And goddamnit if they don’t need a little comfort right there and then.

Bellamy realises just how close he is to Clarke now. Realises that he can feel her breath on his cheek, the shaking in her fingers. Realises that maybe he wants this. “Well, can we figure something out later?” he smirks, lightening the situation with humour as he has always done.

But Clarke doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile. Just crashes her lips furiously against his with a sigh and holds on to his forearms so that she doesn’t topple from her crouched position.

He would be lying if he said he’d never thought about kissing Clarke Griffin. Would be lying if he said he’d never dreamed about twisting his hands in her hair, never wondered what her lips would taste like, never considered how her body would feel against his.

She tastes like blood and smells even worse, but that’s not the point. Bellamy can also count on smelling like shit after he’d been rolling around in the mud for the past twenty minutes.

She tastes like blood and dirt and pain, but she also tastes like new life. Like joy seeping into his lungs with every exhale of her breath into his mouth.

Clarke Griffin tastes like _forgiveness_. That by being with her, right now, all his sins are forgiven.

(He thinks it’s slightly ironic, seeing as Clarke has yet to learn the meaning of forgiveness in her own life.)

She sighs into his mouth when he tugs her down towards him so that she’s sitting on his lap, fingers in his hair, raking through the brown, bloody mess. His hands wrap themselves around her waist, the pads of his fingers lightly brushing the exposed skin between her ridden-up shirt and pants, feels her skin explode with goosebumps.

They kiss like this for who knows how long. It’s cold in these woods and it’s dark, and the tree bark scrapes against his back, and Clarke’s stomach still hurts from Dax’s blow, but it’s good. It feels good. It feels dangerous, and scary, and new. But it’s good.

Clarke pulls away first, eyes still closed and breathing heavily. Her exhaled breath filters like mist into the damp air, and her cheeks are red, lips swollen with Bellamy’s kisses.

“We should- we should, you know, be heading back to camp,” she whispers, hand still in his hair.

Bellamy kisses her forehead, her nose, both her cheeks, her chin, corners of her lips. “We should.”

Now they’re not kissing anymore, just sitting there in the dark. Clarke shuffles so that she’s resting against Bellamy’s chest, eyes closed, just breathing softly. He looks up into the night sky, sees an abundance of stars and a tiny speck in the atmosphere that he knows is the Ark. He thinks Clarke has fallen asleep when she says: “Okay, Bellamy, we really ought to be going.”

He grins and kisses her forehead. “Okay, Princess. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

What shakes him the most is not that he’s just kissed Clarke Griffin, or the fact that there’s a dead boy lying cold-eyed and unburied in front of them while they do so.

It’s that Clarke doesn’t stop glancing at him the entire time they’re packing up the supplies. That he doesn’t stop smiling when he catches her. That her hand finds his on the long walk home and stays there.

And that it feels warm, and safe, and right.

 

**end**


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